


ante meridiem.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bank Robbery, Established Relationship, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Non-Explicit Sex, Unspecified Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times where it feels like every possible thought in the universe resides in Stiles' head.  Sometimes, all those thoughts come in handy but more often than not, they're annoying, bordering on the unbearable.  In all his life, he's only discovered two activities that make his brain shut up, that let him focus on a task with absolute precision.  </p><p>The first, which he'd found out completely by accident, is sex.  More specifically, it's sex with Isaac.</p><p>The second is cracking into a safe (or, in this case, a bank vault).</p>
            </blockquote>





	ante meridiem.

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely inspired by the pilot episode of From Dusk Till Dawn; other than that, I'm really not sure where this came from.

Isaac is so nervous that he can't button the cuffs on his shirt.

He's standing in front of the mirror hanging on the faded yellow wall of their cheap motel room. It's too early for the sun to be leaking through the limp red curtains, so the only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the small table beside the unmade bed. While the room may have been cheap, the suit that Isaac is putting on (and the one Stiles is already wearing) certainly hadn't been. On those, Stiles had gone all out, charging the expenses to a credit card he'd borrowed from someone's purse at the last lacrosse game they had. 

He plans on paying the person back at some point, but that has to wait until after they have the money.

The suit looks _good_ on Isaac. The black fabric is smooth up the long lines of his legs and the white shirt clings to his back and broad shoulders. He isn't fully ready yet; his black tie is looped haphazardly around his neck and the jacket that matches his trousers is still lying on the bed. Although his face is flat and impassive in the mirror, Stiles can see that his hands are shaking. He's been fumbling with the cuff of his shirt for at least the past minute, fingers slipping and sliding over the tiny white button. 

Stiles is shaking too, but it's not from nerves. In his case, it's from nothing less than pure adrenaline coursing through his whole body, making his knees bounce and his feet tap against the thinly carpeted floor. Despite the horrendously early hour, he's never felt more awake or more excited for any occasion in his life and he absently tugs at his tie, which is just a little too tight. 

“You alright buddy?” he eventually asks, since Isaac shows no signs of being able to fumble the button into its slot. Isaac nods curtly, his head bowed, normally nimble fingers still failing him. 

“I'm fine,” he says, tacking on a _fuck_ as the button flips out of his grasp again. "Why the fuck do we have to wear these anyways?"

"Because they look cool," Stiles shrugs. "Plus, y'know, it makes us more anonymous. Everyone owns a black suit."

"Except us," Isaac mutters, cursing again. This time, Stiles can't help but roll his eyes; Isaac has faced down werewolves twice his size, thrown himself into danger countless times, but now he's nervous over a bank robbery?

Typical. At least his claws haven't come out and shredded the suit. 

Stiles stands up and crosses the room, expensive shoes hardly making a sound against the carpet. When he lays his hands on Isaac's shoulders, Isaac freezes, fingers still lingering on the cuff of his shirt. 

“Isaac, look at me,” he murmurs against his neck and Isaac obediently looks up, meeting Stiles' gaze in the mirror. Even in the dim lamp-light of the room, Stiles can't help but get lost for a few moments in the blue depths of Isaac's eyes, which seem to be glimmering gold slightly.

"I'm looking," Isaac replies, forever the smartass. Normally, Stiles would try to come up with a snarkier response, but there's plenty of time for that in the future. 

“We're going to be fine,” he says instead, reaching around until his fingers find where Isaac is still gripping the button. “I promise, we'll be fine.”

“Yeah, but...” Isaac trails off and when Stiles drags his fingers over the paper-thin skin of Isaac's wrist, he can feel his pulse rabbiting. 

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” There's hardly any hesitation; Isaac shakes his head just as Stiles successfully pushes the button on Isaac's cuff into its proper spot. It's the truth after all; sure, he'll willingly commit to half-truths and white lies, but Stiles doesn't throw promises around. He only says them when he completely means them, when he knows that he'll be able to keep his word. 

In this case, he means his word with every fiber of his being. He _knows_ they'll be fine. He's spent too long planning this heist to have it all go to shit. 

“Everything is going to go according to plan,” he says, adjusting his arms so that he can reach around Isaac's waist to his other cuff. “We're going to get in, get what we need and get out, easy as pie. Alright?” 

“Okay,” Isaac says and his body does seem to have lost some of its nervous energy. Once Stiles has finished with the other cuff, Isaac turns around in his arms and leans back against the dresser that's sitting below the mirror. He still has bedhead and absently, Stiles reaches up to try and smooth down some of Isaac's wayward curls. 

“What about afterwards?” Isaac asks, his fingers gripping the edge of the dresser. “When we get back home?” 

“We'll worry about that once we get there,” Stiles says, dropping his hands from Isaac's head and dragging them down his chest instead. “But I think before we do _anything_ with the money, you should tear this suit off of me.” Isaac makes a quiet noise in his throat and rests his warm hand on Stiles' back, pulling him in closer until his mouth is pressing at the top of Stiles' ear. 

“Funny,” he murmurs and Stiles recognizes this voice, Isaac's low _fuck-me_ voice that goes straight to Stiles' dick. “I was hoping you'd do that to me.” 

“If you don't stop, I'm going to do it to you now,” Stiles groans and forces himself to step away. “C'mon, get dressed. We gotta leave in half an hour.”

Isaac gets the rest of his clothes on with no incident and before they leave, they each pull on a pair of leather gloves as well. When they step out of the motel room, the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting the buildings around them in vivid shades of orange and red. There are no cars driving by and no one walking on the sidewalks; their section of the town seems to be, for all intents and purposes, still asleep. 

Perfect. 

They borrow a car off the street (werewolf claws are apparently adept at hotwiring) and pull up in an alley across the road from their target just as the clock strikes five thirty. The bank isn't part of a national chain; it's one of the last small operations in the state, located in a building from the fifties, with shitty security to boot. It doesn't open to the public until eight o'clock and the workers won't start arriving until seven. There are a few security cameras scattered around the place, but Stiles has the solution for that. He reaches into the paper bag sitting between the driver and passenger seats and pulls out two black ski masks that he picked up from Walmart the last time he tagged along with Scott.

“What the hell are those?” Isaac asks, narrowing his eyes at the masks like they're the most hideous things he's ever seen. 

“They're insurance. You've kind of got a memorable face,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes before he leans over and presses his lips against Isaac's. It's meant to just be a quick peck but Isaac kind of has the most amazing mouth Stiles ever encountered, so he isn't surprised that a simple brush of lips ends up leading into something a lot harder and sloppier. By the time he pulls away, his dick is starting to show interest and that simply isn't something that can happen right now, not when they're right across the road from the bank. 

So while Isaac is still staring at him, lips parted and eyes glowing, Stiles unceremoniously yanks one of the masks down over Isaac's face. 

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug when Isaac growls at him. He pulls his own down and takes a moment to check and make sure that all of their supplies are in the duffel bag in his lap. There's a shotgun lying at his feet and he passes it to Isaac, who checks to make sure it's unloaded, even though Stiles has already assured him of that at least a dozen times. 

He's seen enough bodies for a lifetime. He just wants the money. 

“Ready?” he asks, unable to stop his leg from jittering. The street is still empty; god bless small towns that don't wake up before seven AM. There's already sweat collecting on his back and although Stiles is willing to admit that the suits were well worth the money, he can't wait to get the damn thing off. Isaac glances from him to the bank and back before he nods, licking his lips. 

“Yeah. Let's do this.”

&. 

Almost everything goes according to the carefully formulated plan that has been burning a hole in Stiles' brain for weeks. 

They stroll across the road, heading down the alley leading behind the bank rather than towards the front door. It'll be easier to take the security guard by surprise if they do it this way. Stiles has spent the last few weeks memorizing the blueprints of the building (which were easy enough to get) and he knows that the back door of the bank, the one they use for deliveries, opens into a room that's connected right to the vault. The back door is wired to an alarm, but that's only if it's forced open, which just means that they'll have to pick the lock. 

If they'd been doing this only a few months ago, Stiles would have taken on lock-picking duty himself. He never would have trusted Isaac to have enough control over his claws. Then again, he didn't have the idea to rob a bank a few months ago. Even if he'd had, he never would have considered bringing Isaac along to ride shotgun. Hell, he probably would have asked _Scott_ before he asked Isaac. 

Funny, how only a few months made all the difference in the world.

As soon as Isaac slides one of his claws into the lock, it becomes clear that his arms are shaking again. The nerves are getting the best of him and Stiles can't help but curse. One wrong move and they're fucked. So, boosting the duffel bag further up his arm, he lays his hands on Isaac's shoulders and god, the muscles underneath his fingers feel hard as stones. 

“You've got this,” he says quietly, pressing his thumbs into the knots at the base of Isaac's neck, just below the bottom of the ski mask. “You've got this, Isaac, I know you do.” Isaac noticeably relaxes underneath his hands but when Stiles goes to move away, Isaac shakes his head. 

“Don't move. It's helping.” Stiles shrugs and keeps his hands in place, kneading at the stiff muscles, trying not to betray how he too feels taut as a tripwire. At any moment, he expects something to go wrong, expects the security guard to open the door and shoot them. Thankfully, before his thoughts go too far down the road, there's a quiet click and the door opens slightly. Stiles lets out a breath and leans up to kiss the back of Isaac's neck, which is damp with sweat. 

“Knew you could do it,” he murmurs. He has a feeling that the shiver that runs down Isaac's back is only partially due to the fact they're actually about to rob a fucking bank.

The room on the other side of the door is, thankfully, empty. On the wall directly opposite them is another door, half-open, leading into the main area of the bank. The place smells like fresh coffee and Stiles can hear soft footsteps against tiles. He quietly pulls the back door shut behind himself and takes a moment to stare at the door leading into the vault. It's easily the newest thing in the building. The metal is polished and gleaming and Stiles can't resist dragging his leather-clad fingers over the smooth surface as he passes by. 

“Be back for you in a moment,” he says. He pulls the shotgun out of the duffel and passes it over to Isaac before he drops the bag on the floor. He exchanges a quick glance with Isaac (whose face is glistening with sweat where it's not covered by the mask) and when Isaac nods at him, Stiles steps out into the bank's main area. 

As he expected, they catch the guard slacking off. He's in the first room on the right. It's a tiny office, mainly filled up by a desk, battered filing cabinets and a chair that the guard has apparently just settled his considerable bulk into. There's a fresh cup of coffee sitting on the desk in front of four small television monitors, all of which are showing the bank from various angles inside and out, but Stiles has a feeling that the guy has been paying more attention to the porno magazine sitting on the desk than the monitors. 

Before the guy can open his mouth or reach for the pistol holstered at his waist, Isaac crosses the room and presses the end of the shotgun into the flesh underneath the man's chin.

“Whoa, easy there,” Stiles says. He can feel a grin stretching across his face and he doesn't even bother trying to reign it in. “You don't gotta get up. Just sit there, drink your coffee, and don't try to stop us. Got it?”

“What do you want?” the guard asks, his throat bobbing up and down. 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks with a roll of his eyes. Apparently they'll let anyone be a security guard nowadays. “We aren't here for trick or treating, buddy. We're here for the vault.”

“I don't know the combination for it,” the guard responds, face growing sweatier by the second. “Only the manager does. She won't be in until seven.” 

“We don't plan on sticking around that long,” he says with a shrug. “Just sit still and don't try anything. _Definitely_ don't try to reach for that gun of yours.” 

“Seriously,” Isaac adds, “I'm very quick, and I don't want to hurt you.” When Stiles looks over, Isaac appears to have completely banished his nerves, for the time being at least. He's playing his role beautifully, lips curled up into a smirk, eyes twinkling underneath the damn mask. 

He's _so_ tearing Isaac's clothes off as soon as they get back to the motel. 

After they exchange a nod, Stiles trots back to the vault door and takes a few precious moments to stare at it before he drops to his knees, searching through the duffel bag until he comes up with a stethoscope that he appropriated from the hospital a few weeks back. He shuffles closer to the vault and takes one last glance at the open door, where he can hear Isaac saying something to the guard, some bullshit threat that Stiles recognizes from a movie. He can't help but snort before he closes his eyes and presses the tips of the stethoscope into his ears. 

As soon as he presses the listening end against the vault door, the whole world stops. It reduces down to a single narrow pinpoint, to the sound of the tumblers and cogs on the other side of the metal as they slowly churn against each other. Nothing else invades Stiles' mind. 

There are times where it feels like every possible thought in the universe resides in Stiles' head. Sometimes, all those thoughts come in handy but more often than not, they're annoying, bordering on the unbearable. In all his life, he's only discovered two activities that make his brain shut up, that let him focus on a task with absolute precision. 

The first, which he'd found out completely by accident, is sex. More specifically, it's sex with Isaac.

The second is cracking into a safe (or, in this case, a bank vault). 

Discovering that had also been an accident. He'd been absently flipping through some of the files on his dad's desk one day while he was bored. At the bottom of the stack, he'd come across one guy who had been arrested for breaking into a number of small businesses and cracking their safes. Based on the officer's statements and the guy's confession, it hadn't sounded like it was _that_ difficult to pull off and if there was one thing Stiles couldn't resist, it was a challenge. 

The safe in his dad's office had been laughably easy. After that, he'd found some videos on the darknet with tips and tricks for cracking more expensive models. He'd cracked into his dad's safe again (just to make sure that it wasn't a fluke) before he'd tried out his new found knowledge on the one that Chris Argent kept in his office. That was followed by the one that Derek kept at the loft. While it was harder to crack (and bizarrely empty), Stiles still did it in less than fifteen minutes while the pack chased after a rogue omega. 

Every single time he did it, his mind went still and silent. 

The vault in front of him isn't intimidating. It's just a bigger, more expensive version of what he's already managed to do. His eyes stay closed the whole time. One of his hands holds the end of the stethoscope against the cool metal while the other slowly spins the dial, listening for the distinct click that will signal that he's found part of the combination.

Rinse and repeat. 

The final click seems loud as a cannon in his mind. Without opening his eyes, he lets the end of the stethoscope drop against his chest as he reaches up for the wheel set into the middle of the door. When his fingers close around one of the spokes and pull, the wheel spins freely. It's only then that Stiles opens his eyes. His knees are aching and there's even more sweat pooled on his back but both of those things are inconsequential, because the vault is fucking open. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, pulling the door fully open, dropping the stethoscope back into the duffel bag. “I fucking did it.” There's no time to linger or get too excited; although the employees aren't supposed to be in for over an hour, he doesn't want to risk getting caught by an early bird. Before he enters the vault, he pulls a roll of duct tape out of the bag and whistles, rolling it towards the open door. 

“Tape him up Isaac, we gotta go,” he hollers before stepping over the raised lip into the vault. As he expected from the blueprints, there are no other security measures within the vault itself. The walls are lined with safety deposit boxes and while he's sure they contain plenty of baubles that would be worth quite a bit, they're not what he's interested in. Instead, his eyes are focused on the table in the middle of the small, steel room, which is stacked high with bundles of cash that are wrapped together with paper bands.

He has no idea how much he's staring at, but it's a _lot._

He immediately starts loading up the duffel, shoving bundles in as fast as he can get his hands on them. After a few moments, Isaac joins him, the roll of duct tape dangling from the barrel of the shotgun. 

“Need help carrying that?” he asks, nodding at the bag. There's just enough room for the gun and tape on top of the cash and when Stiles goes to hoist the bag off of the table, he nearly rips his arm out of his socket. 

Okay, so maybe he didn't quite think _that_ step through.

“Yeah, grab it,” Stiles says, “we gotta get out of here.” There are still quite a few bundles left on the table but a few thousand either way won't make much of a difference. Isaac easily slings the duffel over his shoulder (stupid werewolf strength) and Stiles leads the way out after he pulls the vault door again. 

It wouldn't do to be _too_ obvious after all. 

The trip back across the road to their stolen car seems to take a lifetime. Just when Stiles is ready to dart across the road and tear the damn ski mask off his head, Isaac stops him with a firm arm across his chest, pressing him hard up against the brick wall. Seconds later, a car comes down the road, one of the newer models that are super quiet. 

To think, their whole plan was almost ruined by a fucking _hybrid._

As soon as Isaac drops his arm, Stiles moves, crossing the road with sure, quick strides. He slides into the driver's seat and as soon as Isaac uses his claws to turn the car back on, he hits the gas. 

“You made sure he could breathe, right?” Stiles asks, waiting until they're past the bank before he tears the ski mask off, running a hand through his rumpled hair. 

“Yeah. He'll be fine,” Isaac says, the words muffled by his own mask. “Fuck, I don't think I've _ever_ been this sweaty. I'm never wearing this again.” 

They park the car in the exact same spot they borrowed it from and even though Stiles is pretty sure their gloves have protected them from leaving any incriminating evidence, he still wipes down the steering wheel and the dashboard and everywhere else he can reach with a rag from his pocket. From there, it's only a ten minute walk back to the motel and part of Stiles just wants to run. He's so giddy he could fucking skip and with each step they take, he's finding it harder and harder to resist tearing Isaac's suit off. 

He manages to resist doing both of those things, but only because they would inevitably draw attention to them. It's far better to look like a loving couple coming back from a night out or something. So he takes Isaac's hand and brings it up to his mouth, pressing a quick kiss against his knuckles. He doesn't think he's ever done that to anyone, especially Isaac, who turns and looks at him like he's sprouted an extra head. 

Stiles just shrugs and does it again. He'll explain why later.

&. 

It's 7:30 AM. 

The sun is peeking through the curtains and the bed is still unmade. Stiles hasn't counted the money yet. The duffel bag is sitting on the floor, nearly buried underneath their crumpled suits and discarded gloves. He can hear police sirens in the distance, but they stay in the distance, and that's the important part. 

“What are we going to do with the money?” Isaac asks. 

“You're seriously asking that right _now_?” Stiles groans, tightening his legs around Isaac's waist. Isaac's back is against the headboard and he's been buried inside Stiles for a few moments now and it feels fucking _amazing._ Every tiny movement seems amplified by the sheer wave of adrenaline he's cresting on. “Can't we, _fuck_ , can't we talk about this later?” 

“No,” Isaac says. When Stiles tries to grind his hips down, Isaac growls and his fingers tighten on Stiles' ass, keeping him exactly where he is. “Stiles, tell me.” Despite his growling and the way his eyes seem to be more gold than blue (although that might just be from the sun), Stiles still catches the plea in Isaac's voice. He's already told him some of what he's planned for the money (he had to, just to get Isaac on board) but he supposes, now that they've gone through with the act itself, Isaac is looking for closure. 

Stiles has never been great with closure, but he supposes that he can provide some on this occasion. 

“'kay,” he sighs, loosely draping one arm around Isaac's neck and shifting closer, biting back a curse as Isaac somehow rocks deeper inside him. “Hospital bills, mainly. Yours, mine, my dad's. Might not pay off all of them, but it'll help. Wanna give some to Melissa, got an idea to make it look like it's from a contest so she won't get suspicious. Gotta pay back the credit card that bought our suits...” He can't help but feel a little weirded out that they're talking about his dad and Scott's mom while Isaac is inside of him, but he's too turned on to let it kill the mood. This time, when he tries to grind down, Isaac lets him and Stiles can feel his claws pricking against his skin. 

“Okay,” Isaac says. “What else?” Stiles does have a few other ideas, mainly stuff for himself. The Jeep could use a few new parts and he's had his eye on some toys that will tide him over on the nights where Isaac is too busy to come over. But much as he wants those, the other stuff comes first. 

“Nothing important,” he groans, tangling his fingers into the curls on the back of Isaac's head. “Why, you got something in mind?” Isaac shrugs his broad shoulders and begins to suck a bruise underneath Stiles' jaw. 

“Tuition money, actually,” he mutters a few moments later. When Stiles looks down, there's definitely a bit of blush on Isaac's sharp cheekbones. “Be nice to have some set aside.” 

“Next time,” Stiles murmurs, tightening his arm around Isaac's neck and grinding down again. “We'll add it to the list for next time.” 

The sound of sirens has petered off, plunging the town back into near silence. According to the clock on the nightstand, there's still more than four hours before they have to check out of the motel. 

Stiles plans on taking full advantage of that time.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
